


tidings of comfort and joy

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [170]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aredhel is 10 Fingon is 13 yes it's that christmas, Christmas, Conspicuous absence of Feanorians and Fingon, Family Fluff, Finwe...should stop giving alcohol to children, Gen, Indis is the best grandma, Victorian Traditions with an Irish Catholic American twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21968263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: There is something positively bleak about a Christmas feast without Fingon.She won’t ever tell him so.
Relationships: Anairë & Aredhel (Tolkien), Aredhel & Argon | Arakáno, Aredhel & Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Aredhel & Fingon | Findekáno, Aredhel & Finwë, Aredhel & Indis, Aredhel & Turgon of Gondolin, Finwë/Indis (Tolkien)
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [170]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	tidings of comfort and joy

The new frock is a dark ink-spot on the bedspread. By candlelight, Aredhel cannot see that it is deep blue. It looks black, and black is a color for mourning.

She wrinkles her nose and pouts, but no one else is here to feel the full weight of her scorn. Mama sent her upstairs with instructions to dress—Nurse was busy with Argon and Mama with dressing herself.

Deep blue! Oh, if Aredhel _must_ wear a frock, and cannot be free to live as a pirate on the high seas, can she not have something in joyful scarlet?

“When I am old,” she says, to the looking glass that hangs at her bedside, “I shall not die until I have worn breeches for thirty-five years straight.”

Thus avowed, she wriggles into the hateful merino, which does not itch (because it is so fine) but which still feels very heavy over her chemise and petticoats.

There is something positively bleak about a Christmas feast without Fingon.

She won’t ever tell him so.

Grandfather’s home is ablaze with lights. The air is cold enough that Aredhel is tempted to tell Argon—him being only seven—that the snow shall pile up inside him if he breathes.

But Mama is nearby, and Papa will rejoin them after he hands over the horses to the groom. She daren’t risk it.

 _Fingon_ , she thinks, quite fiercely, _I hope you are having a dreadful time._

Indoors, there is a good deal of cheer to be found. There are gold-hearted candles and sweet-scented pine garlands, and all of Grandmama’s hothouse plants have been brought to decorate the dining table, which is otherwise snowy with fine linen. Steps away, through the archway to the parlor, Aredhel glimpses the tree—

But it stands untrimmed. What madness!

Grandfather greets them with a bonbon each. “I shall eat Fingon’s share,” he proposes, eyes twinkling, and then Grandmama bobs in, her skirts wonderfully flounced (and, in deep green, some comfort to Aredhel).

“Finwe! You’ll spoil your appetite.”

“For roast goose, my love? Nothing could.”

Grandmama embraces them all in turn, exclaiming over how handsome Turgon is in his best coat—as if she did not see it on Sunday—and lifting Argon off the ground just a little. Grandmama is surprisingly strong.

“My sweet, you are a picture,” she says, kissing Aredhel’s forehead at last. “Is this dress new? I’m sure your father picked the color.”

“Did he?” Aredhel did not even suspect _that_.

“He is so fond of blue,” Grandmama says, with one of her smiles—warm and rich as apple-pie, Fingon said once, thinking himself _poetical_ —and then they all go in to dine.

After most of the family is seated, Grandfather fusses over mulled wine and gin punch (“Just a pipkin each for the children, Fingolfin, I assure you it will do them no harm”), and Grandmama bids a servant to hand the carving knife to Papa.

“I know it would give your father a great deal of comfort, to have you carve.”

“Oh, Papa cares more for ham than goose,” cries Aredhel. “He always says, we must serve both at the Christmas table!”

“Aredhel, hush, my dear,” Mama chides. “Do not mind her, _belle-mère_. She speaks out of turn, sometimes.”

Aredhel flushes, knowing that her face is redder than the dress she hoped for. Grandfather Finwe, who has ceded the head of the table to Papa, pats her hand.

“Your Uncle Feanor is partial to ham,” he says, in a secretive tone. “Perhaps that is why your Papa always insists upon it.” He smiles, and there is something in _his_ smile that comforts Aredhel, even in the depths of her mortification.

Before dinner is properly served, Uncle Finarfin arrives as promised. He teases all the assembled for not waiting, is assured that they expected him at any moment and wanted to greet him with a heaping plate rather than empty hands. _Then_ enough cousins crowd the table that there is a proper din of talking, until Grandfather says,

“Let us bless the food.”

“Now all of you come into the kitchen,” Grandmama says, when the plates are cleared away. “For I have laid out a special treat—not for eating, but for trimming our tree.”

“I _knew_ you wouldn’t leave it plain!” Aredhel crows. “Three cheers for Grandmama!”

The cheers—assisted by Argon and little Artanis—are roundly received. Turgon, who has been looking rather gloomy since they arrived, relents enough to ask Grandfather Finwe why there is a Christmas tree at all.

Aredhel knows that he is pretending to be grown up, with Fingon gone, and so she sticks her tongue out at him. A pirate would.

He ignores her.

“I shall _get_ him later,” she mutters, to round-cheeked Artanis. She shall also hope to hear the story later, from Grandfather, of the tree. It seems to have something to do with German settlers in Philadelphia. That is the place where Grandfather and Grandmama and even Papa, when he was small, used to live. Germans have trees, and Protestants don’t, and that was, it seems, sufficient reason for Grandfather to bring the custom north.

The kitchen table has brown butcher-paper laid over it, and cobwebby cotton batting heaped high. Next to the batting is a small, fat pot of something clear and lightly honey-scented.

“What’s that?” Argon asks, his eyes popping. Argon is full of questions. Aredhel smiles apologetically at Artanis, who does not seem to mind.

“That is gum arabic,” Grandmama explains. “Heated through, so that it will pour thinly. It is the finest kind, and will not stain the batting.”

“What _will_ it do?” Aredhel has questions too, but they are _reasonable_ questions.

“It shall make shimmering snow,” Grandmama says. She is smiling again. “Snow that shan’t melt.”

Aredhel thinks that the batting looks less like snow and more like diamonds, laid lightly along the evergreen branches. Her throat feels funny. Not the sort of funniness that needs to be wrapped in warm flannel—and yet.

Grandmama and Mama and Aunt Earwen hang the fragile baubles. Papa assists in lighting the candles. Aredhel takes Argon’s hand in hers. 

There will be gifts to open in a moment. Her hands have itched for them all day. But for now, it is her heart that leads her, and she finds she wants to sing.

So they do: Fingon’s favorite carol.

_Adeste, fideles,_

_Laeti triumphantes,_

_Venite, venite in Bethlehem!_

Aredhel pauses on Grandfather’s steps. Her new doll sleeps beneath her arm, and a set of books dangles from a sturdy strap, held in the same hand as a bouquet of lifelike wooden flowers. Aredhel is sleepy, even in the biting cold: the hearth-fire inside was warm, and the angel-candles of the tree were warm, and the gin punch was very, very warm.

“Fingon,” she whispers, to the crystal-clad night, “Merry, merry Christmas.”


End file.
